


Debriefing

by Eva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hound of the Baskervilles, M/M, Spoilers Guaranteed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 10:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/pseuds/Eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Anglofile, who wanted first-time snogging post-Hounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Debriefing

*********

One thing about Sherlock that Greg envied (and there were several things, though of course he’d never change places with the daft bastard or John) was that he didn’t have to stick around and do the fucking paperwork. Not for him the miles of bureaucratic bullshit; not for him seeing the evidence collected in the proper way so that it would hold up in court.

But today, that wasn’t for Greg, either. The call had come from on high. Probably as high as the call that had sent him to bloody Devon in the first place.

He found a mostly empty car on the train and scrolled through his contacts twice before putting his phone away, sighing to himself and letting his head rest against the window. The fucking dog, and the fucking man in the mask--what the bloody hell was wrong with the world? Why was he constantly mixed up in it? Yes, fine, Murders, but hallucinogenic fogs, for Christ’s sake?

If you have a moment. Greg snorted, his eyes drifting shut. If you have a moment, my brother seems to be in a spot of bother in Devonshire...

Would’ve been nice if he’d been warned about what the hell was going on in bloody Baskerville.

Bring a gun, the daft bastard says. The trees rising up around him, swirling shadows with fog, that fog, that endless fucking fog, and the baying of a dog caught up in the wailing of Henry Knight--

“Sir?”

Lestrade sat upright, quite suddenly awake. Two tall men in black; he knew how this story went. “No,” he said, and turned back to the window.

“Sir.” Heavy hand on his shoulder. Lestrade sighed feelingly. “The car is waiting.”

“The car--” He cut himself off with some effort, swallowing the curse. “Fine. Right. This is my debriefing, then?”

The ride itself was short, although comforting, in that he was back in London and nowhere near fucking Dartmoor. The car stopped at the house--good God, at the house? Plucked from his holiday, sent out to bloody Grimpen, and he couldn’t have the courtesy to allow Greg to be on his own damn ground, or neutral ground, for this charade.

“You couldn’t fucking warn me?” he cried out, ignoring the men flanking him and striding toward the far figure of Mycroft Holmes, brooding in his study. His study, damn him, because no part of this was going to be fair.

“I did,” Mycroft said, smiling in that smug, superior, infuriating way of his. “I told you what Sherlock was investigating--”

“H.O.U.N.D., you bastard,” Greg hissed, stopping just at the edge of the two foot radius that marked Mycroft’s space. Any closer and the men still following him would remove him, politely and without fuss, unless Greg were to provide it.

Mycroft tilted his head very precisely. “I wasn’t aware that the project was being continued, Gregory--”

“What did you think it was, then?” Greg demanded, flashing his brightest, toothiest, angriest smile. “Don’t tell me you didn’t have an idea.” He very nearly spat the last word out.

“There are many things that could have been happening down at Baskerville,” Mycroft began, and Greg took that one, dangerous step closer.

“Many things--”

His arms were seized even as Mycroft snapped, “Enough. James, Arthur. Enough.”

They let go of him, reluctantly, and left the room with even more reluctance. Greg was shaking now. It didn’t take an intellect equal to Mycroft’s to deduce that he was angry as hell.

The door clicked shut quietly behind the two men, and Greg took one step more, until his nose was mere inches from Mycroft’s and he could almost taste the man’s breath.

“You sent me out there, let your brother continue fucking around out there, with the knowledge that any-fucking-thing could be happening,” he whispered fiercely, trying to stare Mycroft down. Failing, even though he shouldn’t be, not after what Mycroft had done.

“Do you imagine I think so little of you--of any of you?” Mycroft asked, his breath washing over Lestrade’s face.

Three months. Lestrade’s skin itched. It had been three months since he’d last kissed anyone, had anyone’s breath touch his lips. That was the only reason, it had to be the only reason, that his hair was standing up and he was starting to sweat.

“But they need someone official,” Mycroft murmured, closer now, terribly and wonderfully close. “Someone they’ll accept; someone they’ll let help...”

The touch, the barest brush of lips, and Greg surged forward then, grabbing Mycroft’s lapels and forcing him back, knocking a lamp from the desk as he made him sit there, kissing him hard and with all the rage and fear that had built within him, no place for it go, snatched as he was from the train.

“Drugged, you bastard!” he hissed, and then dove back in, kissing like throwing a bloody punch. Mycroft didn’t stop him; he held still and allowed himself to be grabbed and even bit, for fuck’s sake, Greg couldn’t have stopped if he’d wanted to try.

“I can’t know everything,” Mycroft managed to huff testily when Greg let up for a moment, sucking in a breath, which he let out again in a disbelieving laugh.

“No?” he asked, and Mycroft pulled him back in, arms sliding ‘round Greg’s back and Greg wound Mycroft’s tie around his hand, all the better to keep him with.

“There are no lasting effects at the dosage you suffered,” Mycroft murmured, humming in pleasure when Greg nipped at his jaw.

“Nightmares,” Greg said flatly, and yanked his tie to bring his face close again for a kiss.

“Well,” Mycroft breathed against his mouth, “perhaps you should let me ward them off.”

*********


End file.
